The
passage ended in a flight of steps. Robert went up them.
Suddenly he staggered heavily back on to the following feet of
Jane, and everybody screamed, 'Oh! what is it?'
'I've only bashed my head in,' said Robert, when he had groaned for
some time; 'that's all. Don't mention it; I like it. The stairs
just go right slap into the ceiling, and it's a stone ceiling. You
can't do good and kind actions underneath a paving-stone.'
'Stairs aren't made to lead just to paving-stones as a general
rule,' said the Phoenix. 'Put your shoulder to the wheel.'
'There isn't any wheel,' said the injured Robert, still rubbing his
head.
But Cyril had pushed past him to the top stair, and was already
shoving his hardest against the stone above. Of course, it did not
give in the least.
'If it's a trap-door--' said Cyril. And he stopped shoving and
began to feel about with his hands.
'Yes, there is a bolt. I can't move it.'
By a happy chance Cyril had in his pocket the oil-can of his
father's bicycle; he put the carpet down at the foot of the stairs,
and he lay on his back, with his head on the top step and his feet
straggling down among his young relations, and he oiled the bolt
till the drops of rust and oil fell down on his face. One even
went into his mouth--open, as he panted with the exertion of
keeping up this unnatural position.
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